i puzzle over the weight
of all those fragments
skeins and walls of words disconnected
and streaming full of gaps
in the “syntactic flow” and all the jokes
and puns and language games and
what does it all mean?
as they flow down the page
settling still all aquiver and flit
“how do people get away with that”
(i’ve said the same thing myself)
and yet: there are gems
the secret, which is what
holds everything up
into the light
*
i will write for nothing
but the surge of sound
*
you make me laugh with beauty
such beautiful, perhaps
even throwaway, lines
given permission
